


Honeyed Hearth Cakes

by Calyah



Series: Abelas/Ellya Lavellan Drabbles [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 07:16:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4010764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calyah/pseuds/Calyah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ellya Lavellan teaches Abelas a Dalish recipe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honeyed Hearth Cakes

Abelas grimaced as he made his way out of the stables and across the yard, the cold of the night air hitting him full force. The weather had begun to change in the valleys below, with the winter snows melted and the abundance of spring blooming across the lands, but in Tarasyl'an Te'las, the chill remained. He shrugged and shifted the fur cloak around his shoulders, tucking the collar tightly beneath his chin. The sun must have set hours ago without his notice, while he was inspecting the new herd of mounts. The courtyard was mostly silent, save for the occasional loud cheer and clanging of mugs that traveled along the brisk wind, but, unlike most nights, he did not feel like joining in the after hours festivities. The day had been long, and the lure of his bed too enticing. With a shiver, he pulled his cloak tighter around his body and hastened his pace towards the stairs to the kitchens: the quickest route out of the open air and towards the comfort of his chambers.

As he closed the door behind him and stepped into the dark halls, he felt his body sag in relief. The lingering warmth of the kitchen fires and the remnant smells of spiced stew and wheat bread wrapped around him and swept the chill of the night from his bones. He huffed, content, and made his way towards the stairwell to the main hall. 

_Thunk._

Abelas stopped in his tracks halfway across the room and turned towards the closed larder. 

_Thunk. Thunk._

Furrowing his brow and cocking his head, Abelas stepped closer to the door. An intruder? Someone come to steal rations after hours? Or perhaps simply a large rodent pillaging the stores? His fingers itched and began to gather magic.

Another low thump sounded and a muffled shuffling could be heard just beyond the wooden door.

“Fenedhis!” a quiet voice hissed.

Abelas snatched the door handle and tugged, a glowing orb of blue fire poised ready in his hand. As the contents of the larder become illuminated, his lips parted and his brows rose in shock. The magical fire burning along his forearm died away. 

Ellya was before him, perched precariously atop one of the low shelves, one hand frozen midair and the other clutching a small basket of plundered goods. She stared back at him with eyes wide and mouth open in a startled gasp.

“Abelas,” she said as she slowly brought her hanging arm back to her chest. With a low clearing of her throat, she sheepishly placed one foot after another onto the stone floor, “What are you doing here?”

Abelas raised an eyebrow at her guilt-ridden face and gestured to the room. “A strange question, all things considered.”

Ellya bit her lip and clutched the basket closer to her chest. “Yes, well, I was working on something.”

Abelas took in her appearance in the low light. Her dark hair was haphazardly pulled back into a low bun, though several wavy strands hung loosely around her face. Her feet were bare against the cold floor, and she was clad in only a plain green dressing robe. Obviously, she had not expected to be interrupted.

He rubbed his fingers awkwardly together at his sides and glanced around, suddenly feeling as if he had disturbed something intimate. “I apologize. I shall leave you to it," he said, stilted, and turned to go.

“Wait!”

He shifted his gaze back to her at her request.

“Would you mind helping me?” Ellya asked and raised her chin towards one of the high shelves. “I can’t quite reach that jar of halla butter.”

A smirk pulled at his lips and his awkwardness melted away. He had seen her decimate foes with unbelievable prowess in battle and stand without flinching as she faced foreign dignitaries from her seat of power. And yet, here she was, struggling with her short stature and a high kitchen shelf. It was incredibly endearing, though he was sure she wouldn't find it so endearing if he expressed such a thought to her aloud.

Smothering his mirth, he nodded and swept past her to pluck the jar from the shelf. "Shall I procure anything else for you?" he asked, fighting to keep the teasing tone from his voice.

Ellya narrowed her eyes at him. "No," she said slowly as her feet shuffled back and forth, "but you can help me prepare something if you'd like."

Abelas took in the supplies nestled in the basket in her arms: several stalks of a strange fuzzy plant, a pot of honey, a small sack of seeds of some sort, and a canister of salt. 

"I'm afraid I do not possess much in the way of culinary skills." He brought his gaze back to her face. 

"That's all right," she said kindly, but her smile faltered and she looked away. "In truth, I would simply appreciate the company."

A brief silence passed as Abelas considered her words and the somewhat melancholy tone in which she spoke them. 

"If it is company you desire, then I will gladly offer you such," he said seriously, his brow creasing as he frowned. 

A small smile once again graced her lips and she glanced at him briefly before making her way towards the kitchen proper. Abelas followed, curious. He watched as she placed her basket on one of the large tables in the center of the room and moved to the hearth along the wall. 

Placing the jar of butter next to the basket, Abelas shed his cloak and followed her movements as she nestled a few fresh logs onto the floor of the fireplace and hit the flint rocks together to produce a flame. 

Ellya looked at him over her shoulder. "They don’t taste the same if you use magic to light the fire." 

His curiosity growing, Abelas unpacked the items from the basket and spread them out across the table. "And what exactly is it that you intend to make?"

Ellya arrived at his side a moment later. With a soft thud, she placed a stone mortar and pestle atop the table and then she was off again, pulling cups and bowls and metal graters from hooks along the walls and tins of spices from cupboards. Abelas smiled softly at how at ease she seemed to be in the kitchen setting, a new side to her he had not seen before.

"A favorite of mine," she said as she came to stand across the table from him once more. "Honeyed hearth cakes." She began dividing the ingredients in front of her and placing the bowls and spoons to the side in an order he couldn't fathom. 

"Here," she pushed the fuzzy plants his way, "can you prepare these while I measure the spices?"

Abelas picked up one stalk of the proffered plants and frowned. He had never even seen such a plant before, let alone knew what part of it she wished him to prepare or how. 

He coughed low in his throat, "Ellya, I—" He placed the plant back on the table, "I believe I require more instruction."

Her hands paused in their work, the small measuring spoons held still and half full. A sad look graced her face momentarily, causing Abelas to frown once more, but it soon passed and a gentle smile reformed on her lips. 

"I'm sorry. I suppose these wouldn't exactly be commonplace in the Arbor Wilds," she said and took the plant from the table, "This is Fenadaris, also known as wolf tail in the common tongue." She stroked the plumed tufts of the plant and he could instantly see the resemblance to its name. "It's found quite abundantly in the marshes.” She pointed to the bulbous end. “Once dried, the rootstock can be ground into a coarse flour. The Dalish use it for breads and cakes and anything that might need a bit of starch.” She placed the plant back down on the table and sighed wistfully. “Easy to find and store in our aravels. And it’s quite tasty. Sweet with a bit of a nutty crunch. Nothing quite like it.”

Abelas found himself listening raptly to her words. Her tone always changed when she spoke of her clan and the ways of her people, like she had been transported to another place and her voice was coaxing him to follow.

He picked up the Fenadaris and turned it over in his hands. “Will you demonstrate the proper technique for me?” 

A slow grin spread across Ellya’s lips. “Of course. Watch closely.”

She reached across the table and gently plucked the plant from his hands. Quickly, she used a knife to slit it lengthwise and chopped the dried rootstock into small pieces. “You need to make sure the pieces are uniform so that they’ll grind evenly.” She offered the blade handle to him and gestured to another stalk of the plant. “You try.”

Taking the knife, Abelas settled another Fenadaris on the table in front of him and tried to reproduce Ellya’s work. 

“Good,” she said softly as she watched him slice into the plant, "that's just right." She turned back to measuring various spices into a small bowl. 

Abelas continued his work, trying very hard to be precise and mimic the skill he was sure Ellya had practiced over many years, but that was so foreign to himself. When the pieces before him looked as much like hers as he could manage, he smiled, strangely proud, and looked up to get approval for his efforts. 

With a confused frown, he realized Ellya no longer stood at the table. He shifted his eyes to find her and, when they did, his breath completely stilled. She had moved to the hearth and was bending forward to wrap a thick cloth around the handle of a small iron pot. As she moved, the golden firelight flickered and twirled across the dark olive tones of her skin, as if it was a lover caressing and tasting the soft expanse of her form. Her eyes closed and she took in a deep breath as her body leaned further toward the flame. The swirling steam wafted from the pot and curled in dancing tendrils around her arms and face. Abelas swallowed and could not do so much as blink. If not for the lines of June’s vallaslin travelling down her cheek, he could have sworn he was watching the goddess Sylaise herself, stoking and breathing life into the powerful beauty of her flames.

Ellya turned her eyes to him and stood. He watched, his thoughts feeling sluggish, as her green robes settled down her curves, and she walked back to the table.

“Not bad for a first try,” she teased with a quirk of her brow, as she inspected his work and set the pot aside. With both hands, she scooped up the chopped rootstock and placed it into the mortar. 

Within the next instant, she was in his space. The smells of venison stew and baked bread were swept away as the alluring aroma of the oils she used on her skin, white amber and orange blossom, and the lingering fragrance of wildflowers so typically found within her braids filled his nose. His heart sped as she pulled to his side. 

“Here, I’ll show you.” She guided his hands to their proper places around the tools. “Now, you don’t want to be too forceful,” she began and stepped even closer, her hip touching his thigh, “just gently crush the pieces and swirl the smooth end of the pestle to grind them. Like this.” She laid her hands over his again and moved them in unison to grind the small pieces into a coarse powder.

Abelas tried to concentrate on the tools in front of him, but the soft feel of her skin against his and their joint movement, the grind and roll of the stone beneath their hands, seemed to engulf all his senses.

He cleared his throat again and attempted to swallow the sudden nerves he felt at her proximity. “Is there a purpose for these sweets?” he asked trying to refocus his thoughts. “Our venerable leader skulking around in the larder at such a late hour is certainly a curiosity.”

“Oh—” Ellya pulled away and stepped back around to the other side of the table, causing Abelas to frown and his thoughts to sharpen and shift to concern at the sudden change in her mood. She began to fiddle with a mixing bowl, transferring the melted butter and honey concoction and folding in a handful of tiny black seeds. “I’m not sure how many of the Dalish you’ve talked to around here,” she said softly, “but since tonight is the last night of winter, by our calendar, tomorrow will be Sylaise Enansal.” She stirred the mixture again. “It’s an important and joyous celebration, an occasion to honor Sylaise and her gift of fire. A gift which has enabled our people to make it safely through the frost and barrenness of winter.” Her stirring paused as she dipped a finger into the mixture and brought it up to her mouth for a quick taste. “There are many traditions shared across clans,” she continued, “but in Clan Lavellan, we would create great bonfires and make these, honeyed hearth cakes.” She glanced up at him for a brief moment before returning to her vigorous stirring. “They are a symbol, a gift. We make them for our loved ones to show them that we are happy they survived the winter with us, and that they will always hold a seat at our fire and a place in our hearts.”

Abelas’ hands stilled at her explanation, the reason for the tinge of sorrow in her mood becoming clear.

“Even though they’re gone and I know the truth of the gods,” she continued quietly, “I don’t want my clan’s traditions to die. It might not mean very much, but I wanted to make some for those I hold dear: Ishala, Halani,” she paused and her eyes shifted to his face, “and you.”

His heart clenched at her words. That she would include him in her list of loved ones, those she would think of on a day she reserved for thoughts of her clan, caused a swell of emotion he couldn’t quite identify. Abelas looked down at his hands, covered in a fine dust of fenadaris powder as they rested next to the stone mortar and pestle, and a great warmth crept into his chest. 

"Would it..?" He stopped and pursed his lips. “Would it be inappropriate for you to teach me the entire recipe?” He clenched his jaw. "On the chance that I, too, might like to bestow a gift on one I hold dear."

He let the implication hang in the air as he looked at her. His heart thumped wildly as the silence stretched and he waited for her response. Slowly, a blush spread across her cheeks and smile across her lips. Ellya leaned towards him and pressed the pestle back into his hand, her fingers lightly brushing his own before they pulled gently away. 

"Finish with the flour, and then we'll start from the beginning." She paused and looked softly at him. "Together."


End file.
